


Hayaat

by avani



Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: 3+1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Offscreen Death of a Canon Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: Three ways Sujamal did not die, and one he lived again.
Relationships: Mariam-uz-Zamani | Jodhaa Bai & Sujamal (b.c.1533)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Hayaat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllegoriesInMediasRes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/gifts).



1.

Sujamal is not sure how he survives--or, for that matter, _why._ His memory provides only a bewildering collection of images and sensations: that desperate ride through the desert, followed by Sharifuddin’s men; the crowd of tents that marked the Mughal encampment; staggering from his horse to the Emperor’s presence; collapsing into Jodhaa’s arms, murmuring apologies as someone called for the physician.

After, there had been fever, he knows. If his wounds had been a hair’s breadth to the left, even the Emperor’s most knowledgeable men might not have saved him--but instead, he had lived to see his wounds infected, and by some miracle, overcome even that. He woke to the sight of Jodhaa’s face, indistinct but dear. She had not left his side for the three days he had been ill, he is told, save to stand witness as her husband dueled Sharifuddin to determine the fate of the Empire. Sujamal is not entirely surprised to hear this, no matter what had passed between them. He would do the same for her, come what may.

Illness gives them the excuse he needs to linger away from Agra, even after he urges Jodhaa to return while she can. Hindustan must see their Emperor hale and hearty as soon as possible --and Rajputana their Empress at his side. Like or not, she is not merely the sister of his heart any longer; she has responsibilities far greater. There is a peace in the physicians’ work, in the rhythm of their days, that he has never known before. He is glad for it, and daily he dreads the day he must return to face his uncle all the more.

At last he can avoid it no longer. The confrontation is to take place on neutral ground, in Agra’s assembly hall. Sujamal thinks bitterly that it seems nothing more than one more way for the Mughals to emphasize their mastery, and then forces himself to bite the harsh words back. He lost the right to make such accusations when he allied with Sharifuddin Mirza against the rightful Emperor; he must not forget that.

Jodhaa assured him that her husband had reprimanded her father, had made clear the magnitude of Bharmal’s betrayal of his nephew. Eyeing the King of Amer now, Sujamal cannot be certain. On the one hand, Bharmal wrings his hands together with every sign of shame; and yet Bhagwant Das stands like a shadow behind him as he always has. The words a man speaks when he believes his nephew dead and his kingdom in danger are very different than those he says when all has been set right, and in this, Bharmal does not disappoint.

He raises his hand for silence in the midst of yet another interminable round of apologies, ignoring the Emperor’s raised eyebrows at this casual usurpation of authority. “Enough, Uncle,” Sujamal says. “Am I to have my rightful throne or not?”

His uncle blusters. Naturally nothing would give him more joy than to keep a promise to a long-dead brother--of course Sujamal’s worth could not be denied--but then there was the question of his treason against Amer to be considered, and against their Mughal allies as well--how could the noblemen of the kingdom accept his investiture as King, and the Empire depend on a man who had already once proved himself unreliable?

Behind the curtains that conceal the women from the public eye, Sujamal can hear someone inhale sharply, a set of delicate hands turn white anger. He needs not wonder if it is Jodhaa. 

Once Sujamal might have argued. Now, after a death that wasn’t and a life that still does not seem entirely his own, he is only tired: tired of appealing to his uncle’s better nature, tired of forging a link to the father he barely remembers in the only way possible, tired of war. 

“Very well, then,” he says, and turns to go. Behind him, he hears Jodhaa exclaim, and the chime of her ornaments as she gets to her feet, but it does not matter. The peace of the desert waits for him, and perhaps a place at the physicians’ side; he will come late to learning, but not so much so that he believes himself past hope. 

Leave justice to those who have hope of it, like Jodhaa and her Jalal. Sujamal will content himself with happiness. 

2.

There is no finer man in the world, Sujamal thinks, than his father. It’s a pity his orphaned cousins don’t agree. 

In fairness, Sujamal must admit that neither Bhagwant Das nor his sister have ever offered a word of criticism against their uncle, the King of Amer. Yet he knows enough of the world to recognize the tightening of Bhagwant Das’ mouth when Father makes a ruling in court, and the way Mother clucks her tongue whenever Jodhaa passes by. With time it will pass, Sujamal tries to convince himself, and almost believes until his father calls him into his study.

“A marriage offer has come,” he says, “for Jodhaa.”

Sujamal blinks. “For Jodhaa?” he repeats stupidly. “She’s far too young; barely twelve, Father. You must refuse.”

“Naturally I shall!” booms his father. “What of your sisters? Who will marry them when rumors of an inconvenient girl-cousin’s beauty outshines them all?”

Sujamal has a small army of them, that is true; but it has never occurred to him not to count Jodhaa among their ranks. He wonders that Father doesn’t. Jodhaa can outshoot and outfence a boy twice her age and size. A better student no man ever had. Sujamal is certain he’s the envy of every arms-master from here to the Deccan. 

When he says that aloud, however, his father only shakes his head. “Your soft heart will be the death of you, boy. Let me think.” He frowns. “

It doesn’t _sound,_ Sujamal thinks uncertainly, as though Jodhaa is in trouble; and he must satisfy himself with that assurance as Father dismisses him with a wave of the hand. 

*

If Father speaks to his guests of Jodhaa’s prowess in the training court, of her fiery temper, of her unconventional interests and inconvenient opinions, Sujamal only assumes Father takes as much delight in her as Sujamal does himself. If said guests’ faces grow disapproving, Sujamal decides they must be lacking in sense to recognize Jodhaa’s character. 

One by one, his sisters are betrothed. If it ever occurs to him that Jodhaa is not, Sujamal simply thinks that he is grateful he need not bid her farewell. 

Slowly, steadily, Jodhaa’s smiles cease under his parents’ sharp tongues and frequent criticisms. If it ever occurs to him that Bhagwant Das looks steadily unhappier and unhappier, Sujamal puts it firmly from his mind. 

When at last, Father proclaims that the only man who will have Jodhaa is the Mughal mongrel himself, Bhagwant Das does not raise protests alone; but Father is unmoved. 

When not a year later, Bhagwant Das falls in a failed rebellion against his uncle, Sujamal is the only warrior of Amer to mourn him.

When Jodhaa disappears into the Mughal harem and never returns to the Rajputana, Sujamal knows he cannot blame her, nor her brother, nor even his parents. He holds only himself accountable--Sujamal the fool, who saw all, and said not a word. 

3.

“My lord!”

Around midnight Sujamal wakes, startled from a deep sleep by the messenger’s urgent whisper. His quarters overlook the courtyard, and from his balcony, he can hear the sounds of his host grumbling as he rises from his bed. Sujamal holds himself very still but it’s no use: Sharifuddin, whose eyes glint catlike in the dark, notices him at once, and beckons him down with an affability Sujamal instantly mistrusts. 

They meet the messenger together; the poor wretch gasps for breath and announces, “My lord, it is do—“

Sharifuddin coughs. “Your exhaustion is clear, both to me and _my guest_. Shall you take some water?”

The man looks from his master to Sujamal and back again. He bows his head. “No, my lord,” he replies, sounding far more subdued. “I bring news that will grieve you: the Emperor your brother is dead.”

Sujamal does not care in the slightest what becomes of Agra’s arrogant young ruler, but still his heart cries out: _Jodhaa!_ He wonders if she is alone; he knows she will be, surrounded by savages. He must go to her.

He does not realize he’s spoken aloud until Sharifuddin says soothingly: “Yes, yes, we shall. For love of my wife, I must see order restored in the city that once was her home. And you, too, shall come with me before we set out to win you your crown at last.”

It doesn’t occur to Sujamal to object.

*

By daylight, and when one does not risk immediate imprisonment, Agra is significantly improved. Sujamal even finds it in his heart to appreciate the artistry of the domes all about, the precise paneling upon every wall. No longer does it seem the imposing stronghold of his enemies, but only his Jodhaa’s home. 

“You must be anxious to see your sister,” Sharifuddin offers. “Please, go to her. I have only trivial matters of state to see to.”

He wants nothing to do with the spider’s web of Mughal politics. He goes, and happily. 

Jodhaa is utterly undone. Sujamal wishes he might blame this only on the months spent among brutes, but he knows this to be more than that. Her clothes are the stark white of mourning, and for one mad morning Sujamal suspects she might have tried to burn herself on her husband’s pyre for grief--but impossible, he reminds himself, the godless bury their bodies rather than burn them. 

She watches him from the other side of her quarters, and she does not speak. She holds on to the Mughal dowager and does not let go. She will not look at him, and she will not let him share her grief. 

Sujamal despairs.

*

The court thrives. Sujamal is hardly concerned, but Sharifuddin boasts at dinner feasts at how ministers fall into line, advisors interrupt each other to agree with him, proud lords kneel. Privately Sujamal thinks his patron has little reason for pride--it’s clear Maham Anga, who rumor claims rose from her sickbed to revenge herself upon her son’s murderer, is the silent support by his side. She makes him uneasy, the sidelong glance she gives his way: as though he were a part in some plan of hers that he cannot hope to comprehend. 

He thinks he could not hate her more, this crone, but then Jodhaa’s attendant shares a confidence. “It was _she_ , after all, who betrayed Jodhaa’s letter to the Emperor.” Ni’mat frowns. “It was she who separated them in the last days of his life.”

So his sister had been blameless after all. Sujamal grits his teeth and consigns Maham Anga to the worst of hells. 

*

“He was happy,” Jodhaa says miserably. He has sat beside her for days on end, despite her silence, and now at last she breaks it to admit the guilt that keeps her from him. “I had come back to him, and he was happy. Distracted, as you have always taught me never to be. If not, if he hadn’t been--would not he have been more careful?”

Sujamal will not lie to her, even out of love. “He might have been,” he replies. He reaches out to stroke her hair, as though they were both still children. “He might not. Either way, I think it far more important that he died having seen you again, known you loved and forgave him.” He closes his eyes. “In his place, I should want nothing more.”

She seems doubtful; but she reaches out and takes his hand nonetheless. 

*

When Sujamal broaches the subject of returning to Amer and his rightful throne, he does not expect to be greeted by outright laughter. He has been patient, through excuse after excuse; he has done his best to make his loyalty to Sharifuddin clear, despite his growing distaste for the man. 

But Sharifuddin only takes him by the shoulder and says, “Why so eager to leave me? Have I not been a gracious host?”

“Certainly so.” Sujamal forces a smile. “But you see I must take my sister home, where she belongs.”

Sharifuddin grows still and rakes his gaze where Jodhaa, wan as ever, sits behind her curtains. “Of course. The Empress that was.” He grunts. “Is she with child?”

If Sharifuddin were any other man, Sujamal swears, he would have had his head for speaking to his sister in such crude terms. Even besides that indignation, however, his stomach roils with the realization that he is in far deeper waters than he had realized. If Sharifuddin should see Jodhaa, and what she represented, as a threat--

“She is not,” a voice creaks. Maham Anga, skulking in the corner, had been so silent Sujamal had yet to notice her present; but as always, she saw all. “How could she be, when she spent not even a single night in the company of her husband? I can swear to that. The girl’s no risk; let her go where she will.”

Is this, Sujamal thinks, a roaring in his ears, how a holy daughter-in-law of the house is to be treated? 

Sharifuddin frowns as well, but when he speaks, he says: “You know she’s untouched, and so I do, but what does the world? Better for her to bide here than let some other man get his hands--”

“Sharifuddin!” 

Sujamal’s host--his _master,_ he realizes with growing horror--bares his teeth. “How foolish of me to offend you. Let me make amends; the Mughal army will ride out at once to bring Amer under its control, and once that is done, I’ll lay its crown at your feet. Will that do?”

A empty crown for a puppet king; he does not need Maham Anga’s sudden frown to interpret Sharifuddin’s words. Sujamal does not raise protest, even when he and Jodhaa are herded towards a guest chamber that will serve as their prison; he does not do anything but curse himself for the worst kind of fool. 

*

When the door creaks open, Sujamal half-expects to meet an unsheathed sword. Instead, Maham Anga’s unnerving glare meets his. 

“Is she there?” she asks without preamble, and shuffles past, ignoring him entirely. 

Jodhaa half-rises to her feet at the sight of her old enemy, looking more alive than she has in days. “You--” she snarls, and Maham Anga shakes her head.

“No time for idle talk.” She hands Jodhaa, containing to Sujamal’s surprise, a set of Mughal-cut clothes. “Sharifuddin may be a fool, but he is not so much of one that I can expect more than a quarter-hour to myself. The west gate will be unguarded until moon-rise; you and that simpleton cousin of yours must do the rest. Take this, if all is lost.” She hands Jodhaa a vial, and though Jodhaa’s hands shake, she slips it into her skirts. “You might have done well, to have drunk this months before and spared us all much grief. Since you have not--”

Jodhaa nods, takes the bundle in turn, and disappears behind a screen, head held high. 

Left alone with Maham Anga, Sujamal finds himself left with nothing to say, except: “I understood you to be allied with Sharifuddin Mirza, my lady.”

“Indeed,” grunts Maham Anga. “I meant you to.”

“But--”

“I did not lie,” she says, “to you, or him, or the rest of you fools who surround me. I said I rose from the jaws of death to avenge myself on my son’s murderer. Am I to be faulted if none of you understood what I meant?”

Her face twists with grief, and Sujamal remembers that she had nursed the Emperor herself for years. They none of them had guessed the son she meant.

“Ride for Amer with your warning,” Maham Anga commands when Jodhaa returns. “Remember that if you’re caught, I can do nothing for you.”

He has no other choice; Sharifuddin must be stopped. Still, he lingers, wondering what will become of the twice-bereaved woman before him, until Jodhaa takes his hand firmly.

“Come, Bhai-sa,” she commands. “We must go.”

He follows her, even into death. 

&1.

The worst things about growing old, Jodhaa thinks, is how indistinct memories become. There are days now, when strange though it may seem, she cannot remember the exact shape of Bhai-sa’s eyebrows or the number of scars upon his hands; instead she recalls that the corners of his eyes always creased with affection when he saw her, and his hands were gentle on hers. The loss of him still aches in her chest like a bruise, but like all battle wounds, she has learned to live with it. 

She thinks instead to live the way he would want her to: a bridge between two worlds, everything his idealistic soul demanded of the world and never received in return. 

The thought of his silent suffering is what leads her to object when her daughter Jagat Gosain is pressured by court protocol to give up her firstborn to be raised by another; the recollection of his delight in teaching her swordplay is what causes her to insist upon giving each of her grandchildren, be they male or female, their first lessons in self-defense herself. 

That is what first leads her to pay attention to her grandson Khurram. Oh, he is a charming enough boy, and Jodhaa is eternally amused by her husband’s unsubtle partiality towards him, but she never considers him seriously until she looks at his eyes, dark and fierce, above a raised sword. 

He is all of eight years old, and he wears an expression she hasn’t seen in decades.

Jodhaa lowers her weapon, suddenly winded. “That’s enough for today,” she says, and Khurram bends to her touch her feet.

Later, when her husband teases her about the uncharacteristic brevity of her lesson, and Jodhaa offers no defense. She has no doubt he would understand, but why make him worry over a moment’s fancy? Only one more example of wits wandering with age. Jodhaa is far too practical for such hopes.

And yet: “The student becomes the teacher,” says Khurram, offering her a shy smile, and Jodhaa’s eyes burn.

**Author's Note:**

> *"Hayaat" is an Urdu word meaning life, existence.  
> * For everyone familiar with the historical Khurram/Shah Jahan, and therefore boggling at the fourth segment: the historical Khurram was raised by Akbar's chief wife Ruqaiya, who doesn't seem to exist in JA's canon. Jodhaa, on the other hand, both seems the sort of allow Khurram's mother, a Rajput princess herself, to raise him and the sort of emphasize his own Hindu ancestry, which might allow him to develop very differently indeed.  
> *Happy Yuletide, AllegoriesinMediasRes! I hope it’s a great one.


End file.
